It was early this year and most of the grapes have now been picked. On every bend of every country road little purple smudges reveal the presence of laden tractors. The distillery at Castelfranc is beginning to assume its fruity autumn fragrance, as the newly pressed grapes are stored there, waiting to be made into Eau de Vie and Brandy. I noticed it particularly the other day, as I was inspecting the walnut trees on the other side of the road trying to second guess the timing of the next harvest. It’s an unexpected aroma and as it matures and the year draws to a close, there’s really only one thing that can possibly compare. Christmas pudding. Odd, but true.

The last of the season’s fêtes drew to a close at the weekend. The early morning light revealed a Coke can rolling casually down the street and tattered streamers flapping gently in the warm breeze. The tourists have gone and the lazy, hazy, crazy days are over, but the hot southern summer lingers on.

The oleanders and hibiscus on my terrace provide the perfect backdrop for lazy afternoons and steamy nights. And last week we had a little visitor who was thoroughly taken in by the façade and looked as if he’d dropped straight out of an Attenborough documentary.

July heralds the start of the tourist season here in southern France. Markets swell to five times their winter size, chefs sharpen their knives in eager anticipation and the rest of us try to remember where we found that tiny nook that was always available to park the car. But in congested Cahors, things have changed a little, with the opening of the long awaited Parking de l’Amphitheatre. Why is she telling us about a car park for heaven’s sake? I hear you all cry from your collective desks in the grey north. Well hush and I’ll illuminate.